


Who's Your Superman

by Nymora



Series: Billy Idol Gets It [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Community: trope_bingo, F/M, Fluff, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 09:31:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymora/pseuds/Nymora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A typical morning in the Lewis-Rogers household, complete with obnoxious sleeping habits, ponies, and the other fine things that constitute a happy marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who's Your Superman

Steve has stolen all of the blankets.

Again.

Looking over at her husband, snoring happily in his comforter-and-quilt burrito, Darcy tries to remember when she thought this was cute. It was probably six months ago. In August. When they were still newlyweds, and oh yeah, it wasn’t _ten freaking degrees_ outside.

There’s no use moving him either, the guy’s got the density of a neutron star and the convulsive grip of a toddler with a lollipop. All she can do is watch as he snuggles further into the recesses of the blankets, mumbling incoherent words before he flops over on his back and starts snoring even louder, mouth open and nose in the air. 

It’s times like these that Darcy knows Steve has a dark, diabolical well of spite and cruelty at his core, one that only comes out when he’s asleep or otherwise incapacitated. It manifests in pointy elbows, and stinky breath, and every bit of unpleasantness that comes with sharing close quarters with another human being, all packaged up in the body of a sexy blond dweeb who would be appalled if he knew what horrors he wrought.

So before she can do something petty and cruel in revenge, like brush a feather on his nose so he smacks himself in his sleep, she gets up, grumpily shoving her feet into her slippers. The clock blinks 4:38 AM, which is just fine, really, up before the sun on her first Saturday off in a month, no big deal at all. With a last scowl at her blissfully sleeping spouse, she snatches up her pillows and stomps out to the couch. After the fifth time this happened they got a spare comforter, but it’s cold from the closet and it’s not as soft as hers and it doesn’t smell like Steve and she’s just not capable of finding anything great about this situation right now.

Irritation keeps her up for a little bit, but then the next thing she knows the room is full of sunlight and it smells like coffee. As she sits up blearily, rubbing the pillow marks on her face, footsteps and a familiar whiff of cologne come her way until her field of vision is nothing but blue eyes and a bright smile. “Good morning, beautiful,” says Steve, offering her a mug.

“Nice try,” she retorts, thwapping him lightly with her pillow. But she takes the coffee, not in the least because it’s prepared just like she likes it, with lots of cream and sugar and a hit of cinnamon that warms the cockles of her soul. “Nice,” she says, and means it this time, because the coffee is very drinkable. Which means Steve definitely didn’t make it, but still poured it in her TARDIS mug like it’s homemade, and that is just _adorable_.

“There’s muffins, too,” he says, and looks so abashed that she feels her ire slipping away. “And somethin’ else.”

“Jesus, dude, when did you get up?”

“‘Bout seven. Sorry,” he mumbles, shifting from foot to foot.

“Ugh, just come here already,” she sighs, and he obeys with alacrity, situating himself atop her blanket as she moves to a sitting position beneath it. She leans against him, loving his solid weight now that it’s not wedged between her and a good night’s sleep. “Love you,” she murmurs, taking another sip of her coffee.

“Love you too,” he replies, slinging an arm around her and kissing the top of her head. “Forgive me?”

She considers his words, tapping a finger against her lips. “I might need to see this ‘somethin’ else’ before I make that decision,” she drawls, looking up at him expectantly. It’s an outrageous bluff, and they both know it. “Obviously, if you finally got that cutie mark tattoo on your butt, all is forgiven—”

“Darce,” he groans, but she keeps talking over him.

“—but I’ll settle for a pony. It doesn’t even have to be the miniature one you made Bucky take back to St. Louis before the wedding.”

“Darcy, the poor thing was kidnapped. In a _crop duster_.”

“I prefer the term ‘liberated.’”

His disapproving Captain look is no match for her sass, especially when she polishes off the coffee and starts to assault him in earnest. “Steeeeeeven,” she coaxes, clambering into his lap in a flailing pile of limbs and blankets. “Tell meeeeeeee.”

“I dunno. I’m kinda worried what you might do with it now, ‘specially if Buck gets involved. Coupla criminals, you two are.”

“Only when the laws are unjust!” She pouts up at him, a tactic she only uses on Steve because he knows how hilariously ridiculous it would be to think that she of all people would try to win an argument non-verbally. It’s not just that he’s seen her in action; plenty of people have by now. But unlike the rest of his crew of aliens, demigods and other societal rejects, Steve gets people.

He gets _her_.

With that in mind, she flutters her eyelashes, batting them double-time when he groans and leans back, covering his eyes. “Stevennnnnn,” she tries again, this time snuggling into his neck and nibbling at the underside of his jaw. “I solemnly swear I will tickle the shit out of your feet if you don’t tellllll me.”

“Is that a threat?”

“We evil lawyer-folk prefer to think of it as a declaration of intent.”

“I still can’t believe I married some suit-wearin’ mouthpiece,” he says with a perfectly straight face, sending her into peals of laughter. How, how can people think Steve lacks a sense of humor?

“Star-spangled and everything,” she agrees cheekily, just so he’ll brush his fingers against the spots on her hips where she has her tattoos. The Aquila constellation she got after Thor’s visit, but the Scutum, she got for him.

He goes one better and dips his fingers into the waistband of her plaid pajama pants, tickling the inked flesh lightly until she squirms. “C’mon, Darce, up,” he says, and with a gusty sigh she complies, though she refuses to move until he gets up and starts walking. Following him into the kitchen, she gets distracted by the plate of muffins on the countertop.

“Does the ‘somethin’ else’ preclude a muffin, Mr. Rogers?” she inquires, greedily eyeing their streusel topping.

“After, Ms. Lewis,” he says firmly. Even though she legally kept her name, almost everyone calls her Mrs. Rogers or some variation thereof. Steve doesn’t, mostly because he respects her decision to keep that part of her identity intact, but at least partially because he remembers well the soul-crushing ordeal of filling out the paperwork required to assume a new name (or in his case, reclaim an old one). “You won’t want to get it messy.”

Intrigued, Darcy waits patiently as he picks up a red bag by the door. “You got me something I can’t get messy? Rogers, how long have we been married?”

“Eight wonderful, amazing months.”

“Nine, actually.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Nah, I’m just messing with you.” She snatches her present out of his hands before he can change his mind, rustling through the tissue paper to lift out her prize. “Oh.”

“Saw it and it seemed like a good idea,” he says, squinting at her sheepishly as he runs a hand through his hair.

“Oh my God.”

“Uh, is that a good or a bad—”

“You got me a _onesie_?” she shrieks, unfolding the bundle of fleece pajamas with a single flap of her wrists. “A _Captain America onesie_?”

“They were out of Superman,” he apologizes, like the lovable dork he is. “It had a cape and everything.”

“Shut up, like I’d even want another superhero, especially a fake one.” She holds it up against her and of course it’s perfect, should be just baggy enough to be comfy. The tag catches her eye and she reads it with glee. “It comes with an iPhone pocket too?!”

“Salesgirl said it works just as well for StarkTech.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, looks bashful. “Figured it was about time to get you a way to keep warm that I couldn’t steal.”

“I dunno, you’d probably find a way.” Her eyes narrow. “Though if you try to take this, I might have to fight you for realsies.”

“But I don’t like it when we fight,” he says, giving her his best Sad Steve face. Which may work when he’s telling Jess in PR he doesn’t want to appear at a holiday shopping event at Macy’s because “the future is so confusing and everything looks the same but it’s not,” but Darcy knows is a big honkin’ piece of BS, or at least it is when she’s around.

She sidles closer, pajamas still in her grasp. “Does that mean you don’t like it when we make up?”

The instant she’s in range he strikes, pulling her close so he can kiss her senseless, and Darcy decides that muffins can wait. Because if Steve has taught her nothing else, it’s that marriage is grumpy nights on the couch and morning breath just as much as it’s coffee and goofy-but-perfect apology presents, and you need both to be happy.

Especially since she usually steals the blankets first.

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt "marriage" - shocking, right? :D
> 
> Title is from Billy Idol’s “White Wedding” because even though this plot bunny turned from fluff about a wedding to fluff about the daily life of a marriage, nobody puts Billy in the corner. Or Superman, for that matter. 
> 
> Captain America onesies (or footed pajamas, if that’s your preferred terminology) with iPhone pockets are a real thing, and should be on any sane person’s wish list.


End file.
